Megosztott hang

Stefan Schreiber eased the dark blue Volkswagen Passat off the narrow asphalt track and onto a gravel lay-by tucked between a stand of firs and the steep slope of the Wiese valley. It was just after six in the morning, the light still thin and gray. He killed the engine but left the key in the ignition. Habit. The engine ticked as it cooled. Below, the river Wiese ran swift and dark after the spring rains, heading southwest toward the Rhine. He was forty-two, born in Lörrach and never gone far.